


Deep in a daze I can hold you to myself again

by bigchickcannibalistic



Series: I love you as one loves certain obscure things, secretly, between the shadow and the soul. [6]
Category: Miss Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, kinda got away from me, like literally it's just that, the smut compilation, wanted to try my hand at smut and it sorta
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-16 07:45:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15432303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigchickcannibalistic/pseuds/bigchickcannibalistic
Summary: “Sherlock.”Sherlock moves back, forces herself back so she can look at Wato proper, and it’s the wrong decision. Seeing the blatant need on Wato’s face has her insides twisting up, has shivers rake through her, has her drag her nails upward until she’s holding her waist again, which leads to Wato thrusting her hips forward andLord.Does Sherlock want.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This happened because my mind wandered. Then it wouldn't stop, and welp, y'all are seeing the results in semi-coherent bits. This'll get updated as I get around to writing more/editing stuff. Some parts might be familiar from tumblr.
> 
> (Also @suave-alpaca is the most horrible enabler. I regret nothing lol <3 )
> 
> Title from "Breathe" by Miracle of Sound

 

_Just as my own mouth is dreamed to thirst  
the long desire-ways, the hundred-thousand light year roads_

_of your throat and thighs._

_— **Natalie Diaz,**  from “How the Milky Way Was Made,” published in Verse_

 

_\-------_

 

She won’t get tired of kissing Wato. She’s sure of it, no matter how rash it is to put such a certainty while in the act of kissing Wato Tachibana, but Sherlock really _really_ doesn’t care. All she cares about is the sensation of having Wato’s lips against her, the heat of having Wato pressed against her, the weight of having Wato in her lap. The scrape of Wato’s nails through her hair. The way Wato’s pulse skips as Sherlock brushes her fingers along her neck. The way Wato’s hair – for once out of its ponytail – falls in waves over Sherlock’s hand.

The warmth of her lips. The way her tongue hesitantly asked for permission, and once Sherlock deepened their kiss, how it simply _takes;_ drags Sherlock’s along with it, drags Sherlock closer, the hand in her hair shifting to the back of her neck _._ The way Wato’s shirt catches Sherlock’s fingers as she slides her hand lower on her back, the feeling of Wato’s waist in her palm as she tugs her closer – she needs to be closer, needs to feel everything that is Wato Tachibana – wonderful, incredible, lovely Wato – and how Wato _moans_ into her mouth.

It shoots through Sherlock, makes her dizzy, has her head spinning and –

She needs air.

Sherlock breaks their kiss and forces a large gulp through. But it gives her a delicious view of a dishevelled Wato, hair a mess, lips kiss-swollen and eyes dark with want, raw, shameless want and it has Sherlock _burning_ up.

Has her leaning forward, craving those lips something fierce.

In her haste Sherlock misses Wato’s lips, or maybe Wato shifts – either way Sherlock ends up catching Wato’s cheek, and she starts peppering the surface, pressing her lips to every scrap of skin she can find. Starts moving downward at the hitch of Wato’s breathing, so clear right next to her ear, echoing through her, sending such a shiver down her back her hand slips down Wato’s waist. Slides down as Sherlock’s lips slide to Wato’s neck. Fingers scrape against Wato’s jeans and her teeth scrape along Wato’s neck.

Presses her palm flat against Wato’s ass as her tongue presses against Wato’s neck, as Wato buries a groan into Sherlock’s shoulder, as fingers dig into the other shoulder, as if it’s the only thing holding her together. It’s the only thing holding Sherlock together.

“Sherlock.” And the way she says it shoots right to Sherlock’s core, has her tugging Wato impossibly closer, has her moaning against Wato’s jaw. Wato shifts minutely, one hand drags along her back only to disappear, presses her nose against the side of Sherlock’s head, practically breathes into Sherlock’s ear – “Do you want this?”

_Yes. Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes_

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock moves back, forces herself back so she can look at Wato proper, and it’s the wrong decision. Her insides twist at the blatant need on Wato’s face; has shivers rake through her, has her nails drag upward until she’s holding her waist again, which leads to Wato thrusting her hips forward and _Lord._

_Does Sherlock want._

“Yes,” Sherlock forces out, eyes on Wato, always on Wato, on her dark eyes, on her lips, especially paying attention to the way Wato digs her teeth in, and Sherlock has to remember to breathe.

_I want you I want you I want you I want you I want you I want you_

_Wato._

Wato breathes out unsteady and Sherlock forces her brain to work, forces herself through the need, the want, the heat of Wato in her lap. Wato pressed against her. Forces it because – Because there are two people in this, consent requires both parties – “Do you want it? This? Now? M-”

Wato’s hands cup Sherlock’s cheeks, callouses from her latest odd-job leaving her skin tingling, and all but slams her mouth against Sherlock’s, tongue slipping into Sherlock’s mouth. Showing her just how much she wants it. Playing with Sherlock’s tongue just to lure out a moan and drinking it up hungrily.

Sherlock’s barely got her hands under Wato’s shirt, has barely begun mapping out the planes of her stomach, the slope of her lower back, has enough time to register the sensation of Wato’s skin beneath her fingers – no filters, no shirts, no robes – before Wato slips back.

Rises off Sherlock’s lap and Sherlock _whines_ at the loss, a guttural, needy sound. Her hands chase after Wato before getting caught, before Wato pins them to the couch as she leans forward, so close, so tantalisingly close, lips just brushing Sherlock’s, nose dragging against Sherlock’s and expression _devilish._

“Wato,” Sherlock breathes out.

“Tell me what you want.” And Sherlock groans, closes her eyes and leans her head back against the back of the couch. Exhales what little air she’s gathered at the feeling of Wato’s lips against her neck. “I want to take care of you.”

_Oh God._

“Tell me how to take care of you.”

_Wato._

“Sherlock.” It’s exhaled over her lips, the pressure gone from her hands but Sherlock can’t move them, can’t do anything but focus on Wato’s voice. “Tell me what you need.”

“Tongue,” Sherlock rasps out, eyes finally open and she feels the moment Wato’s breathing falters at the sight, hears somehow the way she drags her nails against the cushion by Sherlock’s head and Sherlock thinks _I wish that was me._

But Sherlock pushes through, latches onto Wato’s shirt as she straightens. Wants to drag Wato back into her lap but the woman’s not letting it, has her knees firmly planted, hand steady against Sherlock’s shoulder. And Sherlock nearly whines again, pushes the sound down her throat.

“ _Your_ tongue,” Sherlock clarifies, as if she’d want any other tongue, any other woman, _impossible, unconceivable, ridiculous, one and only_. Lips quirking upright, jutting her chin out so she’s as close as possible. “On me.”

And Wato beams, positively glows with delight a sharp contrast to the fierce fire in her eyes, to the guttural groan she releases against Sherlock’s lips. She parts with one long, lingering kiss that steals Sherlock’s breath away, and then she’s off the couch completely.

Then she’s pawing at Sherlock’s leg, urging her closer to the edge of the couch, sliding along her thigh so carefully, with such practice it leaves Sherlock _shaking,_ takes her mind a moment longer to realise Wato’s tugging on her pants, trying to get them down and _God._

They can’t come off fast enough, Sherlock nearly slips off the couch completely but Wato steadies her with a giggle, and the sound tingles at the inside of her chest, brings out a smile of her own.

Then Wato’s tongue is on her and the smile slips away, has no room amid Sherlock’s moans and _Wato_ and _higher_ and _harder,_ and the broken gasps, half-formed praise just lost in the air because Wato’s tongue – the way it’s playing Sherlock, _oh God_ , the things it’s making Sherlock feel.

_Unearthly. Heavenly. Devilish. Magnificent – She’s magnificent, her Wato, yes, yes –_

_Wato Wato Wato_

She comes with Wato’s name on her lips, with her hands buried in Wato’s hair, with Wato’s hands against her hips, thumbs rubbing soothing circles. Comes with Wato moaning against her.

\-----

“So it was good?” Wato asks after a long moment, and Sherlock laughs. Looks down and bites the inside of her cheek at the sight of Wato with her head cradled on Sherlock’s thigh, the other thigh twitching beneath Wato’s fingers. An impish smile pressed into Sherlock’s skin, eyes dancing in amusement – probably at the state Sherlock’s in.

A mess. A Wato-made mess.

The only acceptable mess, truly.

But underneath the amusement, Sherlock picks up on a hint of worry. As if there’s anything to worry about, as if she didn’t play Sherlock to the grandest of symphonies, brought her to the most delicious pleasure. Left her shaking with the aftershocks.

Sherlock stops the hand lazily combing through Wato’s hair – had nearly forgotten she was even doing it, felt like an otherworldly sensation – and she uses it to urge Wato upward. Upward and closer. Slides the other around her waist on instinct, uses it to pull her closer still until she doesn’t even have to lean forward to kiss her and _God._

The taste on her lips, on her tongue – where that tongue’s been, what it _did_ , how it played _her_ – heat pools low in Sherlock’s stomach, her hand buries into Wato’s hair and she doesn’t realise she’s shifting back until Wato’s jeans slide along her bare thigh to stay upright. And the friction nearly has her going again – but no, this isn’t about her.

“Better than,” Sherlock breathes against Wato’s lips, a small eternity later. Lets her eyes linger on Wato’s face, on her dark eyes, on her cheeks, the shimmer on her chin. Drags her teeth over her bottom lip and feels a thrill along her arms at the way Wato’s eyes follow the movement. Feels it down her back as Wato leans forward, waiting for Sherlock to release her lip only to claim it for herself.

Claim and _devour_.

“Let me show you how good it was,” Sherlock whispers against Wato’s cheek. Her hands dance around the hem of Wato’s shirt, tug once – twice for permission. Her nose drags along Wato’s cheek at how fast Wato nods, her lips split into a grin at Wato’s breathy _Yes_ , and Sherlock wastes no time getting the shirt off.

Air clogs up her throat at the sight – a shirtless Wato – in her lap – in _her lap_ – basically atop her – leaves her sputtering and her fingers itching and her lips tingling, craving to map out all of that skin. And her fingers dig into Wato’s shirt as the want courses through her, locks her up and brings her alight, and somehow Sherlock remembers to toss the shirt aside.

_Art. A masterpiece. The most beautiful sight._

A touch along her chin snaps her out of the daze – _reverie_ – and she blinks dumbly at Wato’s embarrassed smile. What does she have to be embarrassed about? No, this won’t do, not at all, Sherlock needs to rectify this immediately –

Somehow she grabs Wato’s hand, drags it up to her lips and lingers. Presses a kiss into the middle of her palm, keeps her eyes trained on Wato, draws Wato’s to her and only her, and basks in the way they follow her grin.

Then her fingers slip away. Slip away to Wato’s sides, carefully move upward, her hands steady despite Wato twitching beneath them and with the utmost gentleness she can muster, Sherlock shifts them until Wato’s lying on the couch proper. Until her head’s on the most comfortable pillow, until her hands ease along Sherlock’s arms, no fear of being dropped. Until she’s lying beneath Sherlock.

And if the sight of a shirtless Wato stole her breath, the sight of a shirtless Wato biting her lip and lying beneath her has her hyperventilating. It takes Wato tugging her down, snaking an arm around her back, fingers scratching up against her skin – takes the contrasting sting of her fingers and the heat of her mouth to pull Sherlock back, to ground her in the present.

And it’s a thrilling sensation – Wato’s hot skin rubbing against Sherlock’s soft shirt – the fact that Sherlock still has it, the fact Wato’s not even trying to take it off, would much rather sneak her hand under and up her spine – the fact Sherlock can run her hands along Wato’s stomach, can make the muscles underneath twitch and dance at her touch.

“Sherlock,” Wato groans as Sherlock’s tongue slips back down her neck.

Can make Wato sound like _that._

(It’s intoxicating.)

“What do you need, Wato?” Sherlock presses into her neck, hand stilling just shy of her bra, and she feels rather than hears Wato’s moan. Feels every half-formed word she stutters, presses her lips against every abandoned start of a sentence and has to smirk at the frustrated noise Wato lets out.

Gasps at the way her fingers dig into Sherlock’s back, at the way her hips thrust into Sherlock’s, at the desperate pawing at Sherlock left arm, lodged between them and the back of the couch. She slides her arm up until Wato’s got a firm hold of her hand.

“Show me,” Sherlock urges against Wato’s collar, looks up at the frantic nodding. Holds her breath as Wato guides her hand over her chest, lower – over her stomach, lower – over her pants and her hips come up to meet it wanting, desperate and Sherlock inhales through her teeth.

It’s easy to get the jeans off, what’s harder is to concentrate on her fingers when Wato’s so adamant on claiming her lips, on stealing every thought that isn’t focused on that, or the hand dancing along Sherlock’s spine, on the feeling of Wato’s breath beneath her hand or –

Or the way Wato thrusts against her fingers, how she moans in time with each thrust, how her free hand’s still holding Sherlock’s wrist, keeping her there, as if Sherlock would slip away, as if she’d work her up so much only to deny her the satisfaction.

No. Not tonight. (Maybe in round two.)

No, now she wants to see Wato reach that high, reach the crux of the symphony, to feel her fingers dig into her back. Wants, needs, burns with the need to hear her name on Wato’s tongue as she reaches the crescendo, to hear –

_“Sherlock.”_

Then Sherlock remembers to breathe.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was sure Sherlock would’ve made her move during breakfast, the way her eyes were positively boring into Wato as she drank her coffee, the way she held fast to the cup, the excessively obvious way she licked her lips. And maybe she would’ve, had Sherlock’s phone not gone off. (Another instance for the collection of _All the times Sherlock hates getting a call._ )
> 
> (It’s almost as big a collection as _All the times we were interrupted._ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's also probably familiar from tumblr. Though I think it's longer than the tumblr version.

Wato didn’t think Sherlock would last this long, would push through a hectic morning of chasing after their main suspect, would be patient enough for them to return to 221b before she _reacts_. Not that she hadn’t reacted the moment she saw Wato in a familiar pair of pants, wearing one of her many (literally dozen) crisp white shirts. Not that her eyes hadn’t lingered, dropped down and all but dragged along Wato’s form. Not that her fingers hadn’t tightened on her cello, not that they hadn’t flinched when Wato tilted her head curiously.

(It’s a shame the off-beat sound from the cello snapped Sherlock out of it. But she does need to breathe, and a part of Wato was getting insistent on making sure Sherlock’s functioning.)

She was sure Sherlock would’ve made her move during breakfast, the way her eyes were positively boring into Wato as she drank her coffee, the way she held fast to the cup, the excessively obvious way she licked her lips. And maybe she would’ve, had Sherlock’s phone not gone off. (Another instance for the collection of _All the times Sherlock hates getting a call_.)

(It’s almost as big a collection as _All the times we were interrupted._ )

And maybe it was a little cruel to dance around Sherlock in her own clothes, maybe her teasing was a bit too much what with the way Sherlock’s attention was split. But the way Sherlock barely waits for them to enter the sitting room proper to practically pin her against the wall, the way she comes so close, presses into Wato’s space, fills her senses with a scent only described as _Sherlock,_ lets her _feel_ Sherlock’s haggard breathing – makes it all worth it.

“Devious,” Sherlock breathes against Wato’s lips, closer to a pant, before she closes the gap, before she presses all of the lingering need into Wato’s lips and it nearly has Wato’s knees bending from under her. Has her clinging to Sherlock’s waist, slip beneath the beige coat to run her hands along her soft shirt.

She just about finds her bearings, anchors herself as her fingers dig into Sherlock’s side, but then Sherlock’s lips slip away, leave hers tingling and cold and still craving. Leaves her with the aftertaste of need only to drag along her jaw, only to skip along her neck. Only to leave pinching, blazing marks in their wake that have Wato’s head spinning, have her throw her head back and bare her neck.

Distract her so much she doesn’t notice the hand slipping down her front, dancing over the buttons, teasing with its lightness as it slips lower. Wato doesn’t notice until it slips under, easily snakes unto her pants and Wato’s fingers dig in even more, pull Sherlock closer and _groans_. The movement presses the hand firmly against her and the noise she releases is something raw and from deep within her chest, forces Sherlock to clamp a hand over her mouth less it echoes outside.

Wato doesn’t care if it bounces through the entire house, only if Sherlock’s fingers continue what they’re doing, _oh_ the things this woman can do with her fingers, like _that, yes just like that, more, Sherlock –_

_Please, don’t stop –_

“You’re so warm, Wato.”

_Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock –_

Greedy lips swallow her moan.

\-----

When Wato opens her eyes, she’s greeted by the sight of a grinning Sherlock, catches her as she sucks two fingers, the same ones she used and Wato swallows down a moan. The shine in Sherlock’s eyes speaks that this is nothing if not planned. Just like the way she leans close, the way she breathes out into Wato’s ear, the husky depth of her voice as she whispers –

“They look good on you.” And Wato can positively feel Sherlock’s smirk as she adds, “You should keep them.”

_Unfair._

And Wato has to drag her back in to bury the vulgar sound into Sherlock’s lips, only for it to double at the taste on Sherlock’s tongue. _Utterly. Unfair._

_Stupid, sexy Sherlock._

Well, they’ve got time, Wato reasons, already pushing Sherlock back toward the couch.


End file.
